


Eternity

by crystallines



Series: Clean Slate [3]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drabble, M/M, there is a (somewhat) happy ending this time I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:46:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallines/pseuds/crystallines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to Ethan, finally, that he’s lost <i>everything.</i> (<a href="http://ethanakamura.tumblr.com/post/137512274336/">x</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternity

Nemesis regards her son with something akin to pride glowing within her deep dark irises. “You’ve done so well, my love,” she tells him, and her palm is beneath his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes whether he likes it or not. 

Hecate claws her way into his tormented dreams and tells him essentially the _exact_ _same thing_. Then Nike. Morpheus. Even  _Melione_ , whose eerie aura chills Ethan to his very core.  _All_ of them offer their blessings, or _close_  to all of them, anyway. 

They tell him, “You’ve done so well, my nephew, my cousin, my brave, brave, hero,” and it’s getting a little _old_  and _boring_  to listen to, but Ethan smiles to their faces and pretends to accept their praise, anyway. 

When their backs are turned, he brushes off their words before they can settle beneath his skin. 

Their acclaim  _itches_.

Because he _isn’t_  a hero. 

And he doesn’t fucking _want_  their praise.

He wants– _gods_ –

He wants Luke back at his side. 

But he can’t have that, and he knows it. He’s all too aware of what he’s done; the gods, or rather the _minor_  gods, shower him in unwanted accolades for it. He tries to forget, and they don’t let him. 

He fumbles for the next best thing: _forgiveness._  From _Hermes_.

He prays to the god of lies in secret, in the earliest hours of the dawn, when the rest of the Titans’ base is swathed in solemn silence. “He’s gone because of me,” he confesses. “I’m sorry. I’d do anything to get him back. I _will_  do anything to get him back. Would you want that? Do you want him back, too?” 

Hermes _never answers_. Hermes never answers, which Ethan thinks shouldn’t come as a surprise. He knows that the Olympians are fucking _dickwads_ ,at least towards the minor gods and their children. But he can’t help the sinking sense of sorrow that overcomes him every night when he kneels and there are no voices, none of the accusations he earned himself. Nothing plagues his ears.  _Nothing_.

And–Ethan doesn’t deserve _silence_. He deserves the full force of a raging storm.

A week passes, and Hermes _still_ doesn’t answer.

Ethan accepts the fact that he probably never will.

* * *

Luke– _Kronos_ , he reminds himself; Luke would never, _never_ do anything like this–commands Ethan to rally the troops, so he does. Kronos commands him to lead the attack, so he does. Kronos commands him to do _this_ , to do _that_ , so he does. 

Kronos commands him to meet with the spy based at Camp Half-Blood behind the Aphrodite cabin at three in the morning. 

So he _does_. He drags his ass out of bed at three in the morning and meets with the spy based at Camp Half-Blood behind the Aphrodite cabin. 

Just like Kronos asked.

He wants to _punch_  himself because of his sickening submissiveness, but– _damn_. Luke was right. Kronos _is_ pretty fucking scary _._

There are some days when the fear just becomes– _too much_. It sickens him, plagues his every movement, and he skips breakfast and lunch and dinner in an attempt to quell his nerves. 

These attempts are futile, but– _whatever_. 

And then there are the _nights_. The nights when he _can_ sleep, the nights when he _should_  sleep, but he keeps his eye open in the darkness. He’s afraid, achingly afraid, of what he’ll find within the darkest crevices of his thoughts. 

But he _will_  strike back against Kronos. No matter how awfully frightening the thought is. He _has_  to. It’s–it’s for Luke, after all. 

He’ll strike back. 

Someday.

Somehow.

* * *

_This_  is why Kronos scares the living hell out of Ethan: He’s only, like,  _half_  himself.

The other half is _Luke_. 

Ethan thinks it would _still_  be scary as hell even if the other half _wasn’t_ Luke. The fact that it _is_  Luke, though, just makes everything scari _er_. 

He’s leading the evening drills in preparation for–for _something_ , he doesn’t even know anymore, _honestly_ , he wishes this war would just _end_  already. He’s so tired of fighting, so tired, _so goddamn_   _tired_ , but it just keeps stretching on and on and on, forever and ever and ever. 

It won’t stop unless someone _makes_  it stop.

He assumes that he’s preparing the army for yet _another_  attack on the Olympian Army, and, in the beginning, it’s going well. _Too_  well. The company acts in perfect harmony, in creepy robotic synchronization. He calls out the commands; the squadrons carry them out. Clank of armor, rattle of shields.

Yeah. It’s going pretty damn smoothly.

Kronos is standing beside him, _supervising_ , supposedly, but the truth is that he isn’t doing jack shit. He’s looking on with bored golden eyes–golden eyes set in the skin of _Luke’s_  face–with Luke’s hands folded across Luke’s chest. The Titan remarks, “They’re doing superb, Nakamura. You’ve done well training them.”

And there it is. _Again_. 

 _You’ve done well_. 

“Thank you, my lord,” he says, because there’s nothing else he can fucking say, isn’t there? Unless he wants to be vaporized on the spot. _Which_ , obviously, he  _doesn’t_. 

There’s something else he has to finish first.

He’s halfway through the drills when he accidentally-on-purpose slips up. 

“Luke,” he says. “The fourth squadron. What the _hell_  are they doing?”

It’s like a test, _sort of_ , and Ethan watches Kronos out of the corner of his eye. The Titan doesn’t look, but there’s nothing wrong with the fourth squadron, anyway, so it’s really not that big of a deal for _them_ , anyway. 

It’s a very, very big deal for Ethan, however, because Kronos trains golden eyes on him and says in that horrible _monotone_ , “Another reminder that Castellan is dead and gone, Nakamura. You would do well to remember that.”

Ethan can’t help but think, _You wish_.

“About face!” he calls in an attempt to dispel his inner turmoil, and every member of the company puts one foot behind the other and spins on their heel, and it _kind of_ looks like a Michael Jackson move, but of course he doesn’t comment. He _might_ have said something, if only Luke was still here to laugh with. 

Or, no–he _definitely_  would have said something. 

If only, if only.

There are a hundred-something blank faces gazing at him now, and Ethan recognizes Chris Rodriguez among them. His stare is calculating and acute and _intense_ , unnervingly so. At first, Ethan thinks that Chris might be watching _him_ , but a closer look tells him that, _no_ , Chris is watching _Kronos_. 

 _Interesting_. 

“You know,” Ethan says, addressing Luke, knowing that he’s still there, somewhere, somewhere, _somewhere_ , “you know when I talked about the end of the war? Yeah. I’m realizing that that was _bullshit_. I think the two of us have made everything even _worse_.” 

He watches as Kronos’ face contorts in a sudden agony; he uses Luke’s hands to claw at Luke’s hair. Ethan can hear the heavy, labored breaths emitting from Luke’s lungs. A surge of something close to _hope_  stirring in Ethan’s chest.

He calls out another _about face_. The collective stomp of combat boots on gravel disguises the thundering of his pulse from would-be eavesdroppers.

And Kronos’ eyes fly open, and they’re not completely golden anymore; there are– _oh, please, please, please_ –minuscule specks of a blue that is bluer than blue, and– 

And then it’s _gone_. 

In the next second, it’s just… _gone_. 

But it’s enough, _more_  than enough, for Ethan.

* * *

An immortal materializes before Ethan in the dead of night, and the flash of violet that accompanies their celestial presence very nearly burns his retinas.

It isn’t Hermes. Of course. Of _course_  it isn’t. 

It’s a goddess with glossy dark hair that flows down her back like a river and even darker eyes that are so like his own. It’s Invidia, the goddess of Rhamnous. The one who defied _Zeus_ all those eons ago by turning into a goddamn  _goose_. 

It’s _Nemesis_. It’s his _mother_. 

She leans against the desk and crosses her arms across her chest. Scrutinizes, surveys him. Ethan meets her steely gaze and doesn’t flinch. 

“You pay your respects to the Olympian of lies and folly every night,” she begins, “and yet–when _was_  the last time we spoke, my son? Two weeks? _Three_?” 

“Sixteen days,” says Ethan. Luke died– _sort of_ –seventeen days ago, and Nemesis congratulated him for it the very next day. 

Nemesis frowns. “Why?” 

And Ethan has an answer. _Various_ answers, actually. Just…he isn’t sure if he wants to tell– _anyone_ , really, least of all his astral goddess of a mother. 

“It’s not important,” is what he says. 

Her lips curl into something that is either a smile or a snarl. Ethan’s pretty damn sure that it isn’t a good sign. 

“If you’ve been hoping that Hermes will bless you with the gift of lying effectively, he _clearly_ hasn’t answered you.” Ethan’s heart rages, a rapid rhythm in his chest. “I know you haven’t been sleeping. You haven’t even been _eating_. All because of–of  _this_. So, tell me. Why _are_  you paying your respects to yet another good-for-nothing Olympian bastard?” 

“I’m not _paying my respects_ ,” Ethan seethes. “ _Honestly_. I’d _never_  do that. I’m–” He stops himself. “I’d like to have a word with him, is all.” 

Nemesis taps a long finger against her chin. “You’re…looking for salvation, aren’t you?” she asks, and what can Ethan do in response to _that_  question? He averts his eye; it does little to ward off the heat of her gaze. 

“ _Salvation_. Salvation doesn’t exist. You’re grappling for something that isn’t even there. You know what _does_  exist? _Time_. And you’re running out of it.  _Wasting_  it, even.” 

 _So she knows, after all_. “I can’t strike now. I need more time.” 

Nemesis sneers. “Have you been _listening_? You can’t _have_  more time. And I won’t help you cheat your way through this. I won’t help you with _any_ of it.” 

“ _What_?” Ethan’s heart ceases to beat. “But–”

“I won’t rest when victory is _this close_.” She makes a circle with her index finger and thumb to emphasize. “And, in any case, cheating is immoral. Unlawful. I don’t _do_ that. I don’t like tricksters. _Anyway_ , you’re doing this for that boy, aren’t you? I didn’t know him. I don’t know if he’s even _worth_ fighting for.” 

“He was,” Ethan insists. “He _is_.” 

The goddess is silent for the most painful fifteen seconds that Ethan’s ever encountered. Then her eyes find his own, and she asks, “Did you love him?”

 _Oh_. 

“I’m working on that,” says Ethan. “I’ll have to get back to you later.” 

Nemesis shakes her head. “I won’t help you,” she repeats. “If you truly do wish to pursue this goal, you’re on your own.” A tired sigh. Another shaking of the head. “You’ll need your strength for whatever it is you intend to do. _Sleep_.” 

She crosses the room and kisses his forehead, and Ethan isn’t sure what it means, coming from _her_ , but the gesture eradicates the constant pressure on his temples. Another faint cloud of purple smoke, and his mother is gone. 

He _does_  sleep that night. He dreams of Luke again, of hands he never held and veins he never traced, but that isn’t anything new. 

* * *

Something that Nemesis said sticks to him.

_You’re on your own._

Yeah. Screw _that_. He’s getting _allies._

At breakfast, he finds a seat across from Chris Rodriguez and forces himself to swallow bites of stale bagel. He says, “Mothers are _supposed_ to stand by their children, aren’t they?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Chris says. “I never met mine.” 

Beneath the table, Ethan’s hands clench into fists. Demigod families really  _are_  kind of fucked up. “I never met my father, either.”

Maybe that _first_  conversation didn’t really  _get_ him anywhere. So he seeks out Chris during evening sparring sessions instead. 

Except–Chris finds him first. 

“I know you’ve noticed.” He’s breathing a little _too_  heavily for someone who definitely wasn’t running a marathon. “I have, too.” 

“Chris, no offense, but what the _fuck_  are you talking about?” They’re standing in front of an eerie ivy-infested marble statue, several ways off from the rest of the company. The clash of the practice swords are audible even from a distance.

“Kronos, I mean.” Chris looks around fervently. “Listen. He’s not as strong as he claims to be. He doesn’t–”

“He doesn’t have full control of Luke’s body,” Ethan finishes. There it is–the fluttery feeling in his stomach. _Hope_. What a beautiful, beautiful thing. “What’s your point?” 

“I’m thinking,” Chris says slowly, “that someone like him isn’t _fit_  to lead an army like this. I’m thinking we should _leave_. We can join the Olympians instead.” 

Ethan tilts to his head to one side. “But you’d still be fighting.” 

“I’d be fighting for the _right_  reasons.” 

Ethan can’t help it; he laughs, right in Chris’ face. “Bullshit. You’re only saying that because you’re still pining for that Ares girl.”  

“And _you’re_  saying _that_  because you haven’t lost faith in Luke Castellan just yet. We’re really not that different.” 

“You said it yourself,” Ethan growls. “Kronos doesn’t _have_  full control. That has to count for–for _something_.” 

Chris regards him with pity clouding his eyes. And then, the dreaded question: “You loved him, didn’t you?” 

This time, Ethan doesn’t miss the past tense. A fist closes around Ethan’s heart and _squeezes_. “So what if I did? So what if I still do?” 

“I get it,” Chris tells him. “Really.  _I get it_. Love makes people do the weirdest shit, man. That’s why you’re staying, and that’s why I’m leaving.”

Ethan draws in a deep breath. This conversation isn’t going the way he planned. Still, he recognizes the tact, the _reasoning_  behind Chris’ words, and he says, “Fine. Leave, then.” 

And, oh, the sheer _sympathy_  reflected in Chris’ expression–Ethan _hates_  it. “You know, I–I hope you’ll find him again.”

“He said I would,” Ethan says. “And I will. I’ll find him, I mean. _I will_.” 

* * *

It occurs to Ethan, finally, that he’s lost _everything_. 

He lost his life as it could have been. He lost the sanctuary of camp; no matter how brief it was, it was _something_ , and he had to give it up. Then Luke had to go and fucking _sacrifice_  himself. And then his own mother pretty much  _abandoned_ him, and Chris left for the Olympians. 

He’s losing time, too, but he isn’t afraid of _that_. Let the seconds tick by. Let the minutes, the hours, do whatever the hell they want to. He doesn’t care.

Because it isn’t _time_ that he’s scared of. 

He’s afraid of _eternity_. 

Days and weeks and months and _years_  without Luke. He can’t–he can’t _do_  that. He isn’t really sure what fate is, exactly, but he pictures it as…an _abyss_. A yawning black abyss that he’ll have to step into, _eventually_ , because that’s how fate works, isn’t it? That’s what eternity looks like. 

A forever without Luke is a forever that he doesn’t want to have. 

He doesn’t have allies, and his rebellious plan isn’t _really_  a plan, and the gods are probably talking shit behind his back. But he has something, _someone_  worth fighting for. And…he’s got _hope_. Hope, he thinks, is always a good thing to have. 

The blazing sun rises over the eastern horizon.

Ethan rises with it. 


End file.
